Memoirs of the Stone Alcoves
by PurpleProseRose
Summary: 1941 onwards.
1. Introduction: Donya Consolacion

Introduction—Donya Consolacion

"Fuck you! And your Jew dogs!" Such wonderful last words for a man getting bludgeoned to death by a baseball bat-crazy Jewish sergeant. Blood continually flowed from his mouth as he held up his bent, shaking arms, the Bear Jew relentless in the beating.

"Wait!" a young olive-skinned female emerged from the stone alcove where Sgt. Donnowitz had come from. The Nazi looked up from the blood and dirt as the 15-year-old in drag approached. His teary men, on their knees, poked with Karabiner 98k rifles, hoped the young woman would end the pitiless torture.

Donny stifled a scoff through his nostrils, bat on his shoulders as her boots reached the bleeding commander.

"First of all," she reached for an object at her waist, obscured by her oversized jacket. "I prefer cats. Second," the silence in the entire trail allowed a sound like metal grinding against a material to ring through the group. The Basterds smirked and some even whistled. All hope for the Nazi platoon had evaporated like their commander's last breath.

"I'm Catholiiiic!" she shrieked as an elongated blade at her hands emerged from its hidden hilt and was thrust into the dying commander. She cackled as she sliced. She stabbed him once, twice, thrice, it did not matter. All what was left was a perforated, bloody carcass and a cross-dressing, half-way insane, trigger-and-hilt-happy young woman who had splattered scarlet into her salt-and-pepper strands.

Lt. Aldo Raine remembered vividly.

"That sound good?" he demanded at his line-up of 7.

"Sir, yessir!" they shouted back.

But behind the men came a huff and puffed bundle—a brown- skinned lad who couldn't even grow facial hair yet and was no taller than Pfc. Hirschberg panted to keep up.

"Reporting," he inhaled, fingers to the rim of his beret. "For duty, sir." The boy dropped a sack at his side as he laid his salute down at "At ease."

"We's already locked an' loaded, private. No need—"

"But sir, I insist," the lad's voice seemed to sound higher.

The Apache circled him 'round like a vulture.

"Son, we don' need no dead weight. Let alone—" he swiftly yanked the boy's beret; the other hand pulled the first two buttons of the loose jacket.

"—a distraction." The men couldn't help but lean in their direction.

Black hair lined with little silver strands cascaded down the "young man's" shoulders. Lt. Raine's fingertips were high above the inner white shirt's small mounds but little below her clavicle.

"Now. Who are you?" he removed his hand and gave her beret back which she brought down on her head.

"I am Private First Class Maria y Avaloneada. And… I wish to join you."

"Now I reckon yer not from 'round here."

"Uh, no, I'm Filipino—"

"Yer English sounds pretty American." Maria smiled.

"I'm well-to-do—I studied English before coming to France… But I couldn't learn Italian or French or…."

"German?" Sgt. Donny Donnowitz butt in.

"Yeah. I was sent here to learn premed. Then this war broke out. And _voila_, here I am."

"That "voila" the only French you parlais, private?" Aldo continued to ask.

"Yea… pretty much."

"You Jewish, darlin'?"

"As Jewish as I'm a guy."

"I see."

Aldo faced his men and examined them all.

"Anybody itchin' to speak against Ms. Av-NYAY-duh?"

"Yea, I am." Aldo's second swaggered over to the two. "Can lil' Ms. Maria the shiksa here meet a quota of a hundred Nazi scalps?"

The young woman let out a petite smirk.

"I knew you'd be asking for an audition," she stooped down at the sack to her left. "One question, though." Suddenly, the smell of rotting blood filled the air as the Lieutenant and Sergeant saw Maria's finger's clutching two light-haired pieces of skin. One of them seemed to have bone poking through, like the plate under a meal of meat.

"With or without skullcaps?"

**Author's Notes:**

**-So my first ever fanfic…. All criticisms are welcome—good, bad, ugly, tomato, whatever—be honest!**

**-a katana is usually used in slashing and slicing rather than stabbing but Maria wouldn't know anyhow. **

**-"Donya Consolacion" is a character of Jose Rizal's Noli me Tangere. She is an ugly pretentious woman yet is cast as "muse of the alperez (the police back in the day)" because she is the commander's wife.**

**Now, Maria's not pretentious but neither is she too ugly or too pretty. I gave that as a title because Donya Consolacion thought of badass ways to torture—and so will Maria be The Basterds' muse of torture. **

**Gratuitous title or not, that's up to you. **

**-Maria's katana. Now what could a cross-dressing 15-year-old Filipina in France do with a weapon like that? Hmm…. Makes ya wonder, don' it? You'll learn soon enough…..**

**-Hm. Catholic. Filipino. Non-Jewish. What could she have against the Nazis? Ooh, look the following chapters!**

**-Yes, Maria's an **_**Author Avatar**_**.**

**-PLEASE! Tell me if I'm going Mary Sue with Maria! I don't wanna end up like…. *SHRUG***


	2. Rope and Cyanide

Chapter 1—Rope and Cyanide

The autumn leaves crunched under the open jeep's tires. The chilly wind greeting the two Nazis' faces as one's leather glove clutched a bag to his side.

A figure on its haunches came to view—a fellow soldier in his cold gray attire in contrast to the warm hues of fallen foliage—just sitting there, his back before the halted vehicle. His limbs were obscured from view.

After some words in German—silence. The two walked out, shutting the jeep's doors, the leather case left on the passenger seat. And for a moment, all the forest stilled. The breeze in silent asphyxia, the birds refused to chirp. It was cool, but the two men felt icy drops of sweat trickle down their uniforms.

Obviously, something was not right. A hand was laid on the sitting man's shoulder. The thud of the corpse falling back resounded through the forest as an upside-down ghastly expression of sheer torture burned into their minds. His glassy dull eyes looked into theirs—the life and light drained as the blood in all their faces. One of the soldiers walked to their fallen comrade's limbs—the palms and boots were pierced through then threaded with knotted rope now encrusted with blood as they dangled from high above the tree line.

A thud and rustling sounded behind them. But before any of the two could look, the next thing was a concrete smack to the head followed by a blackout.

He blinked a couple of times. As his vision cleared, it was as if panic had slapped him and the sting was setting in when he saw his partner lying several feet from where he was sitting… he lay in a pool of his own blood. The corpse lay with the improvised marionette, discarded like yesterday's garbage. It appeared the neck and skull had been fractured terribly—the bones shattered under the ruptured, bruised and bleeding skin.

He struggled—limbs knotted with rope—the only way to get one's bearings was to look around. He was surrounded by a platoon of burly men and a young woman. Almighty knew what came next.

Lt. Aldo Raine walked up to the young soldier in his early thirties. Surprise and dismay mixed on the soldiers emotions as the mustachioed lieutenant held up an envelope (presumably from the bag mentioned earlier.)

"You speak English?" he asked, his voice thickly saturated in Appalachian accent. The soldier still focused on the note. "Parlay VOO English? Sprecken ZE English?" Just a blank expression. "Wicki!"

Cpl. Wilhelm Wicki stepped forward and asked in German and lo and behold. . . no, he did not understand English.

"Well no shit, Sherlock," Pfc. Maria y Avaloneada exclaimed. "Ask him about the invitation and who's going."

Ah, the previous letter—an invitation for Nazist krauts all over for a get-together here in France. That's what it said. What it didn't say was who the hell was attending. And that's what The Basterds wanted to know. And when Wicki asked—

The Gerry spat into the dried leaves and followed it with an indignant "Nein!" and even more German words.

"He says," Wicki continued, "if his partner didn't give up the info, what made us think _he_ would?"

"Tell him," Maria said, "the thought of running back into his dame or mom or sister's arms _alive_—emphasis on the "alive"—and chewing on sauerkraut 'til the day he kicks the bucket and burns in hell."

Another exchange in German….

"He says "fuck you.""

Maria glared at the Gerry.

"Who's turn is it?" Aldo looked to his men.

"It's either mine or Maria's," Pfc. Gerold Hirschberg answered.

"Well, you two know the drill."

Maria faced Hirschberg and the two rolled their fists. One, two, three. Her rock versus his scissors.

"Hirschberg?"

"Hm."

"Leg." And in a flash Hirschberg whipped his MG42 and pumped several bullets into the officer's left leg. He yelped in searing pain, straining to struggle yet this resulted only to rope burns but burns not as worse as the projectiles fresh from the point-blank barrel.

Maria walked to the man and brandished her katana at his throat.

"Tell him to pick!" She ordered, her sight not leaving her captive. "Either I cut his whole right hand off or mince his left one's fingers inch by inch!"

Wicki translated her cruel verbatim. But she received only spit to the face and wiped it off soberly. The steel blade was lowered.

"Foot it is then," she stabbed the Nazi's right foot and dug hard past the leather and muscle and straight through to the bone. He bit his lip hard, the expression of pure physical anguish painted on his creased face. He screamed "Bitch!" at her.

"So you do know English! Now," the sword was forced lower and lower with each word and when she thought she'd pass the sole, she'd wave the katana left and right. "Who's. Going. To. The. Party?"

He was basically screaming at this point, crying for comfort, searching the gloomy tree line with hopeless eyes that it would end. No choice.

Click.

Maria stopped grinding into the Nazi's foot and looked down at her fellow guerillas.

"Did you guys hear that?" Boom. Realization.

She dropped her katana, still protruding from the foot.

"Hold him still!" he wriggled while the other Basterds grabbed hold, Maria attempting to pry his mouth open. He clamped shut like a clam. Donny forced his huge hands onto the kraut's face and got his mandible at last. Maria reached her bloody fingers inside trying to get a feel at his molar's crevices.

Her fingers tasted of grime and his own blood. Who does this little bitch think she is reaching into his mouth? Whatever. It will all be over soon—unless if her hand choked him first…

Debris! She drew her arm out and the Basterds let go.

Useless. His flimsy limbs swayed as his whole frame dropped to the leaves.

Maria handed what she found to the Apache then proceeded to slice at the cadaver's hairline.

"Well I'll be damned," Aldo exclaimed, looking at the fragment between his thumb and fingers. "An L-pill."

"They didn't issue those when I was there," Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz examined.

"What now, boss?" Maria rejoined the group, katana in hand, scalp in the other.

"Well," Aldo's sight not leaving the shard. "One of you's gonna be in a dress and heels."

Maria raised her brows. "Yup—so Utivich, Ulmer. Which one of you's gonna be flappin' your gams at the Gerries?"

"I meant YOU, Av'neada."

"… Ah, fuck."

**Author's Notes:**

**-the L-pill or Cyanide pill, to my knowledge (though I could be wrong) was not standard issue of the Nazi army though anyone could have possessed it to refuse interrogation or to commit suicide rather than be tortured.**


	3. Beatrice, Benedick and a Beret

Chapter 2—Beatrice, Benedick and a Beret

Hirschberg reloaded the machine guns except Maria's Thompson submachine gun which she preferred to load herself; Utivich and Wicki prepped the tuxedoes for the following night; Donny and Kagan were on lookout shift; Stiglitz sharpened his knife; Maria was washing her sword in a stream and the other Basterds were in town with Lt. Raine—reading guards' lips, gathering info and getting some make-shift incendiaries.

She had always worn that black beret. It was always useful in keeping her lengthy hair from going into places.

"Next shift!" Andy Kagan yelled from atop the bridge. Maria's turn. She dried her sword and hands onto a rag, sheathed her sword, got up and turned around and in front of her was the sergeant.

She was just going to pass his side and head for the top of the stone bridge. Then her beret disappeared.

"Hey!" she jumped, her headpiece locked in his knuckles, high in the air. "Give it back, Sarge! C'mon. It's my watch." He smirked, running backwards 'round being chased by a whiney private.

"Man, you're slow, kid."

"Can we do this _after_ my shift?"

"Not until you tell me why you love upstaging me so much, tuts."

"Hey, not my fault you have no sense of imagination." Donnowitz stopped dead in his tracks at that point. Maria attempted to jump but he lifted her beret in time and shot a questioning look.

"Imagination?"

"Yeah. Just like your name, Sarge. Donny Donnowitz. You sunnuva b-" he pointed his finger.

"A ah! Don't even go there!"

"What? I was gonna say "barber." And another thing, I read these things called "books" and "literature." You should try 'em sometime."

"Wait… You probably think Imma meathead, don'tcha doll?"

"Which part, the-hairy-muscles-part or the-beating-Nazis-to-a-shitty-pulp-with-a-baseball-bat-part?"

"Well, everybody's gotta have a signature move."

"Tch, you make everything sound like a damn baseball game."

"Then I must be damn sexy." At this point Maria shot a what-the-hell face and tried even more to get at her beret if it wasn't for Donny's huge hand up in her face.

"Whatta 'bout you? Like you have any trademarks."

""Trademarks?" Ha! My variety _is_ my trademark! Who thought of stringing rope through a Nazi's hands and feet? Me! Who thought of making that kraut choose between his left and right hand? Me! Who thought of using a carcass for a puppet for a diversion? Me!"

"Yeah, and we had to fuckin' carry you and that dummy up the tree."

"Y'know, I always thought Jews being whiny was a dumb stereotype—but you seem to embody that just fine! And who thought of dressing you and Stiglitz up like two SS guards to attract Nazi bitches that we could skin? M—"

"What was that last part?"

"Umm… forget that last part. Point is, do YOU think any guy in this sausagefest could've done better torture jobs than me? I'm the ob...blabla fuhrer of info via torture here.—Damn, I always forgot that word—what was it… "

"_Obersturmführer_." Stiglitz and Wicki corrected while passing through, carrying the box filled with the tuxes.

"Gesundheit," she hollered at the two. "Now what was that word? Bah, I'll never know."

"One last thing, though."

"What?"

And "what," indeed. But more of "WHAT?" Donny, bent down, his right hand holding the captive hat up, the other, pointed to his cheek. Maria's expression screamed "ARE YOU FUCKIN' SERIOUS?"

Now, Donny didn't really like Maria. If he did, well, it was surely not in that kind of form. But he did want to see how far she'd go for that hat.

It happened. Maria got her beret back as Donny saw stars…Also, his cheek was throbbing as she ran away laughing.

"Court martial me if we come back alive, Sarge." She hollered from afar.

Lt. Aldo Raine and the others had just returned and had gotten supplies. As he walked, Maria dashed hastily past.

"Whoa, where's the fire?" he asked. She continued to run without so much as a glance.

"Late for my shift, boss." And with that, she got to the highest mound and hopped onto the bridge.

And when Raine turned around, there he saw Donny walking up, his cheek swollen and pink.

"Fuck, Donnowitz. What the hell have you been doing?"

"Getting smacked by a shiksa."

**Author's Notes:**

**Shiksa- a term for a non-Jewish female**

**Beatrice and Benedick- a couple in Will Shakespeare's "Much Ado About Nothing." They're known for bickering and witticisms but end up together anyway.**

**-Maria and Donny will never be a couple in this story- in a relationship, yes. But not as a couple- more of a Big Guy, Lil' Gal bro-sis kinda thing. Every relationship Maria has in this platoon is purely FILIAL. Don't worry, though. Nobody gets friendzoned in this fic. **

**Anything else I'm forgetting to explain?**


	4. Sing, Sing, Sing with a Swing

Chapter3—Sing, Sing, Sing (with a Swing)

The evening had arrived.

The men looked quite dapper in their tuxedoes. And for once, Maria didn't look like her tomboyish, blood- soaked self—being in a purple dress and black fascinator. Her face caked in powder, hair in an itchy blonde wig to hide where she had come from. But what unnerved her more than anything else was her feet. _How do women walk in these? _she seethed in her brain. It felt like every step she took was a step taken barefoot on a sea of knives. And when Ulmer or Stiglitz or any of the Basterds would ask her how she was faring, she'd reply,

"I think my toes'd bleed before the krauts do."

The Basterds entered in almost a huddled double file, each one carrying a bow-tied package or parcel. Inside, were sub-automatic guns, rifles, pistols and/ or British time pencils hooked to explosives—armed, and set for a few hours. Stiglitz was ordered to idle outside, lock the doors from the outside at cue and keep the two Volkswagen Kubelwagens and the sidecar-less stolen cycle running.

The Apache gave his orders as they subsided into the table and chair sets of the gray smoke-filled room where a dance floor was the middle of it all, a stage at its head.

"Wicki, Ulmer. West. Utivich, Hirschberg. East. Kagan, you with me at the rear—with somebody at the door to cue Stiglitz. And, Donnowitz, Av'neada… distract them."

"FUCK WHAT?" Donny exclaimed attempting to be as quiet as he could.

"PHSAAH?" Maria concurred—obviously, at a loss of words.

"Good luck," Aldo was about to turn before his shoulder was held by her.

"How the holy niblets do we do that, boss?"

"Swing it," and with that, Lt. Aldo Raine took off into the clouds of cigarette smoke, his white blazer glared amidst the grey.

"Psst," Maria nudged Donny, trying as hard as hell to be incognito with their English. "Do you know how to dance, Sarge?"

"Not a clue."  
>"Good. Neither do I."<p>

It was far too late to back down now. The other Basterds took their places, trying their damnedest to look as inconspicuous as possible, stashing the "presents" under the tables.

Meanwhile, Maria gulped as she and Donny made their way to the dance floor. Thoughts rushed in both their heads like if whether or not the heels would break or if the wig would come flying off or if their explosives went off too early or if all Nazi eyes would see transparently through their ruse.

Her infamous weapon was back at the hideout. After all, it is easier for a fifteen-year-old girl in a cocktail dress to conceal a 6.35 schmeisser pistol at a garter at her right thigh rather than an eye-catching 4.5 ft. katana dangling from her waist.

Donny and Maria's shoes were at the border now. A couple of steps and he had to put his hand in hers, the other on her tiny waist. And she, her other hand on his shoulder.

Aldo and his men sat back and drank in horror as the two roughly spun in and out. _Good God_, Aldo thought, _they look like a bear and a cat doing a tango like scarecrows struck by lightning!_

"Do you think we should let them live this down?" Wicki asked as he did a shot.

"Not a chance," Ulmer, doing a spot of whiskey as well.

Maria had to be spun out, without letting go of Donny's hand, and returned. Unfortunately, those deadly spats cost somebody else pain.

"Fuck a duck, private!" Donny seethed under clenched teeth.

"Sshh, Sarge! We have ears but so do the walls…and so do the krauts."

"What?" he angrily whispered.

"I mean," he had to dip her now. "We're parlais-ing English and two, if the Gerries get wind we're Allied soldiers, we'll be more keelhauled than drowners at D. Jones' locker. In other words," he raised her as their terrible waltz continued. "No J-words in a room full of N-word-loving K-word's."

"Again, "what?" And since when did you fish?"

"I told you. I like reading."

The song had ended and for finale flair with a motive, she was spun out again and there was Aldo, nodding with a smirk. As she was spun back, she grabbed onto Donny's neck.

"See anything yet?" he whispered into her nape.

"Boss gives a go."

Meanwhile, by word of Aldo, Wicki had snuck all the way behind the band stands. The maestro, shocked to see him could not move as Wicki held out a crumpled Reichsmark. The conductor, trembling took the bill out of Wicki's hand as he whispered into the old man's shoulder before vanishing behind the stage. The mark was snuck into his coat. And a one, and a two and a—

Drums and cymbals began beating. Horns started blowing a rhythmic tempo as Maria let out a nostalgic sigh.

"Blimey. Haven't heard that in awhile. Louis Prima's _Sing, Sing, Sing_. It's my favorite Jazz song."

"Well, nostalgia mama, if Raine wants those krauts stunned—"

"Then we'll have to shock 'em."

The pair was like a gear and an axle. He sent her circling him as she rotated clockwise and counterclockwise, never breaking the contact between their hands. She spiraled back into his arms, his front to her back, arms interlocked as she kicked the air. The two locked hands lead as their pairs of feet strode together as they circled in ringlets and let go in opposite directions but never letting go of the hands that lead. Her back returned to his embrace. They let go and Donny spun and stopped then his and her hands joined again as she slid under and up between his legs.

By the sidelines, their comrades had Cheshire Cat grins. And yet underneath the tables were the "gifts" unwrapped and the explosives planted.

Occasionally, the two distracters shot looks of "I'm gonna kill you later" and "Fuck you" at their teammates who were enjoying every moment. Outside, Aldo was beaming but on the inside his head was ticking away. When all the Gerries had their eyes on the sergeant and private, that's where they stand, shoot and jet before KABOOM!

And indeed, the dance floor was clear save for Donny and Maria. All eyes (and whistles) were on the pair. Hands on her hips he swung her tiny frame to his left side then right. Then he let go of one hand to pass behind him and catch with his other hand as her feet touched the ground, encircled Donny and knelt to slide 'round. He picked her up to lean on his arm with a pose—hand at the back of her hair, legs crossed with a blessed smirk.

Maria was lifted mid-air to do a vertical flip. A bullet missed her torso by a centimeter and instead hit an officer in the forehead. Blood leaked out of the wound as the man fell to his knees. His wife screamed. The slaughter of swine had begun. The Basterds took out the hidden armory and blasted everything that moved. The locked entrance had started to crowd. Outside, Stiglitz had managed to kill every guard that dared to rescue the evening. Their corpses, leaking crimson fluid and pumped with lead and nickel. The only objective left for him to do was lean against the door, maybe take a smoke and listen to the fireworks on the inside.

Running. Screaming. Yelling. Gunfire. Pure, unadulterated chaos. Other Nazi officers pulled out their defenses but all in vain—what could pistols do in the face of the sub-machine guns? They too, were soon filled with metal. Donny and Maria were tossed some ammo. Classic Maria—shooting several parts of the body but avoiding the vital organs to allow a searing slow death via hemorrhage.

Aldo shot in the air.

"Nobody gets out."  
>"On it." Maria ditched the Chicago violin along with the wig and hair net. And she and Donny made their way to the piano. She grabbed his shoulder and hopped on the seat, arm across his shoulders and his hand at the back of her waist. Donny propelled Maria as she shot with schmeisser in an unsteady genuflect. Her fascinator and hair had come undone. Dodging the tables, three shots were gone in an instant and the piano bench was still speeding. She hopped onto a table to reload, taking bullets from the band around her thigh. Porcelain plates and wine glasses breaking seemed so silent compared to the havoc in the ballroom.<p>

Spilt Nazi blood draped the grey walls scarlet, rivaling the swastika flags. The only dancers on the dance floor now were the splatters of life fluid in intricate patterns cast by these droplets. If ever the remains of the building survive, then these red shadows on the floor shall bear time's test along with it. Nobody was spared, not the musicians, singers, nobody.

When it was all over, The Basterds ran to the door. Outside, Stiglitz was taking a smoke, listening for the shrieks of bloodshed. It had quieted down now. A knock came along with the lieutenant's voice.

"We're done. Stiglitz, open the door before we become Jew jambalaya—"

"Ahem?" Aldo shot a look at the disheveled Maria past his blood-spattered men.

"And Shiksa shish kebab," Maria rolled her eyes. "Mixed with Nazi nuggets on the side."

Stiglitz opened the hall's doors. The Basterds briskly sped out to the two jeeps and the cycle. There was no time for Maria to get in one of the jeeps where her jacket lay. She had to share the cycle with Donny. It was a matter of time before—

Shrapnel spat out of the great hall as it was accompanied by a thunder roar of an explosion. She glanced to the side mirror.

"Geez, guys. Were you planning to blow up the whole town sky high?"

"Nah," Hirschberg hollered from a Kubelwagen's passenger side. "Just enough charges to blow the whole building… or maybe four more."

He had just gone to run an errand… but now, everything was in flames… the place littered of burning corpses… the whole ballroom annex. The German clenched his fists. His superior will hear about this.

**Author's Notes**

**-Everybody's heard of the 1938 jazz instrumental by Louis Prima **_**Sing, Sing, Sing (with a Swing)**_**. If you don't know the name, search it in YouTube and you've probably heard it in movies or TV shows.**

**-Reichsmark—currency during the Reich [insert "you don't say"]**

**-I didn't base this on real dance moves—I just imagined it while listening to the song.**

**-Volkswagen Kubelwagen—the jeep the Nazi German army would use**

**-Chicago Violin—The Thompson "Tommy Gun" submachine gun**

**-This was set in 1941 before any of the main events in the movie—Aldo's jacket can from a source or contact in Paris.**


	5. 15 & 50

Chapter4—15 & 50

The platoon rolled into the forest. Maria got off the bike and dropped onto a pile of dried leaves, yanking out the shoes.

"That was amazing!" she gasped. Donny walked up to her as he helped her stand up. "Look at you, partner." The two clasped palms.

"I didn't know you could swing it like that!" he twirled her 'round as she fell silent.

"…neither did I."

The two burst out laughing. Omar had gotten a fire started and Kagan was rummaging for something in a bag.

"Y'know, I always thought those stories of you bangin' all those Boston babydolls of your block was full of hot air," now Hirschberg and Utivich were quoting Maria's words for a tongue twister. "But now I can see that as justified," she smiled jokingly.

"I told you, I never danced—but damn, you're right, I did bang all the broads of my block."

"If we ever live through this, if ever, can I be the godmum of your baby?"

"Interesting idea…" Donny pondered it for a couple of seconds. "What'd you name him?"

"I… dunno… Well I did always like the name Lee. But if he was a she, then… Ruth. Or Ruthy. Like Babe Ruth. Yeah… lil' Ms. Ruthy Donnowitz… It even has a nice ring to it."

"Watta 'bout you, darlin'?" Aldo asked the cross-armed Maria. "Any summa bitches waiting for you back home?" The men hooted and whistled as she smirked.

"Tch. Nobody but my family," she took a rag and wiped the make-up from her face. "None of those _kanto boys_ ever caught my eyes. Besides," she swung her arm over Donny's neck, the other on Aldo to her right. She smiled as she looked around her, the men all eyes as they sat around the fire's warmth. "I got all the boys I could ever wish for right 'round me here right now."

"So!" Donny reprised. "Who first smacked y… er, or should I say, who'd you first smack on the kisser, tuts? "

"No one." Dead silence as she crossed her arms. "I never knew what the big deal was." Crickets. Crickets. "What? Just 'cause I'm the bitchiest interrogator here, my kisser can't even be a virgin? Anyway—Kagan, what do you have there?"

And by the firelight, everyone saw in Kagan's arms a bottle of amber liquid and in Hirschberg's fingertips, shot glasses.

"We kinda snuck these out," Hirschberg laid down the shots as Kagan started pouring. Every Basterd, even a fifteen-year-old Maria, took a glass, and raised it before the fire.

"To the night's success," Aldo commented. "May those Nazi summa bitches burn in hell."

"Amen to that," Maria concurred. The sound of clinking shots echoed through the trees like the humming cool night breeze.

She laid her glass and stretched.

"Welp, I've got next watch. And you guys better change before the joint starts smelling of man sweat. And since Imma girl," she stuck her left hand under her pit then wiggled her fingers 'neath her nostrils. The men raised their eyebrows and some glanced at each other and some took another shot. "My deodorant should stick for an hour or more," a deeper whiff. "Ah, screw it, I'm changing! 'Night, boys."

The men said their "good night's" as Maria's short barefoot figure picked up the sandals and left the firelight as she retreated into the stone caves.

Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz must have sheathed and unsheathed his knife a thousand times since his less than ten minute stay atop that bridge. A lone figure with a rifle climbed up, careful not to spill the contents of a shot glass. She handed it to him.

"You missed a lot," she sat on the cold stone next to him.

"As long as they all died, its fine with me," he sheathed and unsheathed his knife.

"Yeah. But it's different from hearing them scream and getting to murder them with your own hands."

"I'll drink to that," he laid down his sheathed knife and did the shot.

A tiny bit of the dagger was still exposed and Maria strained to read the engraved words in the dim light cast from below.

"May I read it?"

"Can you understand German?"

"I would if you told me."

Hugo took out the blade in full view. It glinted in what little light they had. And without the blood crusting the steel, it shone—saved for the engraved words.

"It says "Loyalty is my honor."" He scoffed. She let out a laugh.

"Life is full of ironies, no?" Maria's voice seemed slightly deeper and as Stiglitz took out a cigarette, her seldom seen slivers of silver hair lightly flashed at an angle.

"To defeat the monsters we so despise, we have become them—and I have no damned regrets. Not even hell," she made it sound so plain, simple. She sent her fingers to him. He complied, putting his cigarette between them. She took a light drag and gave it back. Smoke poured from her mouth.

"If I came back alive… and if there was anybody to come back to… they'd probably disown me first chance I tell them of us, The Basterds," she looked at him.

"Tch, you know the silly thing about Filipinos? My dad wrote that those Japanese fucks would bayonet mothers with their unborn babies then fuck their daughters after that. But when it came down to capturing Jap POW's—Filipino don't know how to torture… or couldn't… or wouldn't."

"Your father believed that?"

"I don't know," she borrowed his cigarette for another drag. "I believe that. I'm just paraphrasing what my HUK of a father wrote me and what I think about the situation. The details are rather sketchy at best."

"But aren't you—"

"Pure blooded Filipino. And at the same time I managed to be the head of torture in our little platoon. Toldya life was full of ironies."

"But you're wielding a Japanese sword. How's that possible? "

"I told you, my father's a HUK."

"I have no idea what that is."

"He's the member of the _Hukbong Ba_— y'know what, I'll just say _HUKBA_—damn, even the abbreviation's long. Let's just say they're the underground resistance movement in-charge of clashing with the Axis that's there and those are the Japs."

"Never met a girl who fought with her father in a resistance movement."  
>"What?" she jolted from the ledge she was leaning on. "Oh no, hon. I didn't fight the Japs with dad."<p>

"But your sword—"

"I was here in France practicing in the university, prepping for college for at least a year."

"So that's how you knew the proper areas on one of our last captives. Remember when you gripped his neck? What did you say again?"

"What, that he shouldn't be afraid of my sissy grip but more of my nails?" Hugo nodded.

"Yes, you said something about veins."

"Yea, that I threatened to give him an aneurysm at his jugular veins and his last moments would be of headaches and vomiting. Looking back—man, I was a wimp!"

Seconds of silence… only to be ceased by Maria.

"Aw, man. Then this fuckin' war broke out, school got cancelled and a week or two later I got a line from home. An occupation had begun, it was dangerous and dad said that I shouldn't come home but not to worry. Ha, "not to worry" he says. Some parcel came with the letter—it was a memo that some badass shit's been going down and when I unwrapped it, there it was:

"A great big fucking sword meant to scare me. And then I knew. "What the hell am I doing?" I'm standing around doing nothing while a war was raging. So I went to the army, heard of The Basterds and insisted that I join. Go ahead. Any Basterd will tell ya the tale."

"That's how. I want to know why you joined, Maria. It were the Japs who attacked your country, not the Nazis."

"Can't you just settle with the saying "Everybody's got a reason?""

"No."

She sighed.

"Y'know how… when you attempt to kill a snake, if you get at its end…it'll either die slowly and/or give you one last bite that'll kill you along with it?" Hugo nodded. "But. If you get at its head, it'll almost instantly die?"

"You're not saying—"

"Shut off the Nazis, shut off Hitler and we'll kill the Axis. Kill the Axis, kill the Axis Powers in the Pacific, which are—"

"The Japs. But—you don't exactly think we can get to the Fuhrer, do you?"

"Objectively? No. Of course, not. But hey, we might as well die trying. We've got only this life to live—unless you're Hindu or believe in reincarnations," she asked for another puff from the cig. "This might be my only "justification" of my part in this troop and my share of blood lusting dementia."

"You are probably the most cynical fifteen-year-old I've ever met."

"Why, seen more fifteen-year-olds?"

"…"

"I have no regrets. But…do you? Like leaving a girlfriend or mom or sister for this war?"

"…"

"Come on, I told you my story, now tell me yours."

Hugo stared blankly at her.

"Alright, I'll back off. No skin off my back if you won't tell how you murdered The Gestapo."  
>"I didn't murder the very Gestapo. Just its officers."<p>

"Well, whatever. Point is they're scared shitless of you and if the only history we know of you is back in that cell where we found you, then fine, keep it there."

She seemed so distant beyond her years. True, she was only fifteen, but she smoked, drank, cursed and acted sometimes like a man who'd seen all of war's travesties. Earlier, she might have dressed like how a proper young woman should have. And the boy's thought she was the bee's knees. What they also knew was—it wasn't her. The Maria they knew, the Maria The Basterds knew was a cross-dressing psycho maniac wielding a katana.

**Author's Notes:**

**-The **_**Hukbong Bayan Laban sa mga Hapon**_** (HUKBALAHAP, "People's Army Against the Japanese") was one of the underground resistance movements of the Philippines during WWII.**

**-Lee Donnowitz- Donny's son in **_**True Romance**_**, another Q. Tarantino flick.**

**-Go ahead! Try saying this tongue twister 3-5 times:**

"**Boston Bear Jew bangin' all the Boston babydolls on the block."**


	6. Contrapasso

Chapter5—Contrapasso

The orange-hot katana scorched the blistering pale skin. It seemed like centuries before she lifted it again. Then she'd yank at his roots, grasping at the blond follicles after the steel was shoved under the very much live firewood and embers. It was not a scalping. But she swore she'd break a couple of vertebrae as she pulled his head back, much against his will and against the chair's back.

Outside the tiny log cabin, it was quiet and cool, silent as the night sky was navy as it hung star-speckled over the Solahütte SS lodge. But inside the cabin it was the very opposite…

Previously, Donny had stuck his arm into the man's mouth. He could feel the rag slipping down his throat as Maria forcibly bent his head back as her right hand, tight and lily white, clutched his skull. Her left hand's claws, lengthy and blade-like as they were, forced deep into his neck. The flesh continued turning heavy scarlet as she vied to puncture all his jugular veins.

The Basterds smirked and watched their hapless victim choking on a dirty fist-full of cloth. He was panicking as his airways were near shut, heart and lungs racing, bathing in sweat. Their eyes that glinted in the bonfire glowered at him. Her fingers' contact with his neck felt as tight and heavy as the ropes that bound him to the single oakwood chair surrounded by the guerillas.

And every now and then, that bitch would let go with her left, raise the burning blade from the flames and almost every degree of burns would immediately appear on the Nazi's neck, arms and chest. Again, she'd bury the sword into the fire and take those talons and pierce and pinch ever so slowly, the boils and blisters cast by the steel.

This must have been a variation of hell except no running, no screaming. But just like hell, no escape.

A thumping came on the cabin door. Wicki slashed their captive's throat once and for all as Aldo ordered each member to hide at what little space they could utilize. Maria, Hirschberg, Kagan, Sakowitz and Zimmerman squeezed under the two beds, guns up at the edges; Aldo sat on the corpse and asked to be covered by a blanket; Utivch, Donny, Stiglitz and Wicki had to creep at the walls' edges and stay hidden from the windows' view from the outside.

The door thundered down as three Germans entered, Walther P38's at the ready. There clearly was a struggle—the sheets were all tousled ad pulled at from the mattresses; bullet holes bore into the floor and walls; the lampshade, cast from the nightstand and shattered at the floorboards. At the center of it all, a chair covered by cloth, before the fireplace. It cast a man's silhouette, he lying back as if he were merely napping.

One of them spotted an object protruding from the fireplace—a hilt of some sort. He raised the sword, lengthy and burning hot red.

Another was about to gingerly pull the sheets from the figure on the chair. He slowly gripped the edge as brunette strands came to view—the last thing he saw—before a bullet entered his forehead.

Aldo yelled "Go!" and that was all it took for Utivch, Donny, Stiglitz and Wicki to emerge from the closet and their crouching positions. The others followed suit to pull their triggers. Nazi blood splattered the brown wooden walls, turning them red as the life fluid seeped into the crevices and splinters.

Sirens started to sound as search lights poured from heaven to earth. It was about time to move out. The sun had not even risen and yet the brightness from above was blaring into their eyes. Sounds of marching and boots tenderizing the dirt and whining sirens made everything seem more like a high detention penitentiary than a lodge.

The Basterds ran deep, far into the forest. Anybody in the troop could feel the tension in the air. Shots rang out and Kagan and Hirschberg were eating the dirt. Maria tried to look back but was held by Wicki. She thought her heart was either glowering with fury and rage and hate that seemed to sear her chest or that it was so agitated that it felt like it would jump out of its pericardial sac and into her throat to explode. A couple more zigzagging and a couple more bullet shots and Utivich's left cheek and left arm were pouring from scratches. But it was a time where you wouldn't notice minor stains on your cheek and jacket but instead you see your comrades falling before your eyes and you can't help but run despite the welling in one's soul and thoughts that ran rampant in anybody's mind. Wicki then sustained a bullet to the right shoulder. It felt like a fire ant queen had come from the nest and dug her burning pincers into his flesh. Donny and Stiglitz put Wicki's arms on their shoulders as they continued such a defiant pursuit. They tumbled and dodged, tripping over rocks and roots and occasionally slipping into the mud and gathering abrasions on their knees and elbows. A couple of thud sounds behind them and they knew Sakowitz and Zimmerman would not continue this chase anymore.

They halted in a clearing.

Wicki was heavily in pain as his jacket dyed in liquid scarlet; Maria had lost her beret and her hair was all in terrible knots as her palms were slashed from parting the branches; Hugo had painfully sprained his ankle and deeply scathed his knee while helping carrying Wicki; Donny had lost his bat and ammo in the chase as Aldo was out of breath; Utivich's wounds had mostly clotted but left trails of thick blood flow.

The heavy rush of boots and vehicles mobilizing filled the air. Every one of them inhaled pure claustrophobia. The trees were too tall and near branchless to climb; it was an open area yet The Basterds (what was left of them anyway) felt they were being encircled by pressure, being boxed in like the beasts that they were. Fight or flight, the drum line rolled in their heads.

"Maria," Aldo's accent broke the silence of despair.

"Yeah, boss?" she panted.

"You've read about hell, right?"

"Yeah, Dante Alighieri's _Inferno_. Why?"

"Who's in deeper shit, killers or suicides?"

"Boss, you're not thinking—"

"Just answer!" Aldo never used that sternness in his voice, let alone at his men. She swallowed.

"Suicides…"

"…Boys, take out your pistols," all took out what handgun they had. But it was pointless now for they were out-gunned and out-matched. "Do whatever you want with it."

The army was approaching as morning was. Rays of fresh light contrasted against each Basterd's face of hopelessness. The Basterds faced their backs at each other, pistols ready as hordes of Nazis came.

"It has been a privilege," she inhaled. "To serve with you, gentlemen."

"Same here, shiksa," Donny added. "Same here."

"Much obliged, boys," Aldo concluded.

"Now the Nazis," Wicki smirked. "Will have to _oblige_ us."

"Well, we're all gonna die," Utivich spoke out. "So goodbye."

Stiglitz simply nodded.

And for the first time, a sting stronger than homesickness or hunger or disgust made Maria want to literally jump out of her skin. She bit her lip, trying to wage pain with pain but it was useless. Containing her screams she blurted them out pathetically with every other crack of the whip. Both she and Stiglitz were in chains—the two gentiles, a traitor and some Asian girl—both bearing their screams out and wishing that they'd stop breathing anytime. The pain of their wrists being scathed against the rusted cuffs could not outlast the sharp pangs on their bare backs. The salt in their sweat, freshly distilled from the humidity, mixed with the blood and gashes. The stinging plus the lacerations and lesions made both of them gnash their teeth. And that's when she knew, there was absolute physical sadism done unto her that could register pure pain far more powerful than her palpitated heart, that ached for her companions, could…or so she thought.

Several more soldiers entered with bundles being dragged in and cast aside at some lonesome pile. The thump resounded through the cell as they were dropped like yesterday's garbage. Her peripherals couldn't help but glance—

Wicki…Zimmerman…boss…Donny…Omar… Her father figure and brother figures… Her commander and comrades….

She looked back at Stiglitz yet hadn't realized his once masculine grunts and groans had been halted. His cadaver was unshackled and dumped along with the pile.

She was dead wrong.

She shrieked and screeched at the Germans, struggling to break her own wrist despite how much she'd murder to have their eyes clawed out of their bloody sockets. And yelled and tugged she did, not giving a damn whether they understood or not.

"GO AHEAD! Torture me! Rape me open and slit my innards if you have the guts! You understand, you Nazi fucks? Skin me! Burn me alive or rip my teeth out. Pull my hair by the roots and scalp me! And if I faint… pour hot water all over and wake me because I wanna feel EVERY SECOND and remember EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE! YA HEAR ME, YOU FASCISTS?"

Another part of her though was outside the present Maria—like her own soul, her sense of reason was, like, watching her—frothing like a loose woman, like a non-human monster slipping into dementia…

Maria rose out of the covers, panting. She pressed her damp palm into her cold sweaty forehead and wiped away stray strands. She unbuttoned her jacket and looked around.

Hirschberg slept against one of the recess' walls, the lamplight playing on his round face; Utivich was shoulder deep soundly in his sleeping bag, facing the wall; To her left was Sakowitz, faced away from the light; To her right was Zimmerman who was staying up and sitting up reading a book or scribbling in some log. She caught sight of him.

"Was it a nightmare?" he got up and got her her canteen. She nodded before taking a deep swig.

She read somewhere before, a saying, "where the night goes, that's where the nightmare goes." But she wanted to see where the night was after re-buttoning her jacket and reassuring Zimmerman that she'd tell all at breakfast.

Aldo and Kagan were on watch somewhere. The other Basterds were in another alcove of the bridge. Donny's snoring combined with Stiglitz's seemed to make the stone structure quake. She was alone with the fire. The warmth and snoring combined as a blanket of reassurance—that they were still alive…

Life seemed so quaint amidst a war-torn world as they seemed like any civilian family in a café having breakfast, smacking down on bagels and chugging coffee. Zimmerman cleared his throat, staring at the snacking Maria. She laid down her toast saying she had a dream last night.

And the morning seemed to unravel and time seemed to slow down. The first part of course, was enjoyable and Aldo thought he could apply such a tactic. But then came the next part…and it went downhill from there… Eventually it ended up with Maria saying,

"That could never really happen…right?"

"Oh yeah, yeah…" that's what they all seemed to say with unsure nods and head shakings followed by some "We'll scalp a quarter of them before they catch us" or "Let's just see 'em try."

But underneath that man talk and the table, some of them were literally quivering in their boots—or maybe that's because how Maria illustrates it.

**Author's Notes:**

**-Contrapasso- this may sometimes overlap with the "Petard Hoist" or "Hoist by his own petard" trope/ tool.**

**A form of irony wherein a victim's sin is used for the torture**

**Ex. Your sin—you talk too much**

**Contrapasso—either you don't talk at all or talk nonstop for an eternity**

**This was popularly used by Dante Alighieri in **_**Inferno**_

**- Solahütte SS lodge—a sort of camp where SS members could chill on the outskirts of Auschwitz (yes, where the concentration camp was)**


	7. Hydrogen Peroxide

Chapter6—Hydrogen Peroxide

The officer stood erect in front of his Fuhrer who was clutching his forehead. His fist pounded onto the desk and the report in German.

"So you mean to tell me—that they burned down the whole annex in Paris and LEFT WITHOUT A TRACE?" the mustachioed man growled in German, violently flinging his arms in his fury.

"Yes, _mein fuhrer_. That is what my errand boy reported. After an urgent trip to the repair shop, the whole place was in smithereens. Corpses littered everywhere and no sign of the perpetrators."

"Those Jewish dogs…they think they can threaten my boys and have us on the run? I'LL THROW THEIR CARCASSES INTO THEIR SYNAGOGUES AND BURN IT ALL TO RUBBLE AND THROW THE ASHES INTO THE TROUGHS OF PIGS!"

The Fuhrer pushed the button of his desk communicator. His secretary's voice buzzed from the speaker.

"Yes, _mein Fuhrer_?"

"Franz. Clear my schedule. I am going away for awhile…"

"Yes, _mein Fuhrer_."

Hugo Stiglitz was about to polish his blade. Inside the lonesome tunnel he contemplated stabbing and knifing several Nazi schmucks who dared question his activities while guarding the ballroom doors as the others finished the job the other night.

Screams and shouts penetrated the vaulted walls. Stiglitz rushed outside where he was greeted by a frantic Zimmerman, Hirschberg climbing a tree, Donny barking orders from its base, Aldo shouting to Donny from atop the bridge and Maria screaming but nowhere to be found. Every other Basterd was with Aldo, taking aim at something on the other side. Stiglitz got his Karabiner and joined in the aiming.

"Do you got a clear shot?" Donny hollered.

"I'm flippin' trying! She's in the way!" Hirschberg attempted fixing a shot with his shotgun.

"AAAAAHHHHH! Donny! Aldo! Guys!" Maria yelled. "Aim for the fucking tires, not me! AAAAHHHH!"

Ignoring the shots, the two Nazis just carried on driving the cycle, dragging the 15-year old by the hair, knotted tightly behind the sidecar. Some strands were already broken or were near breaking, split or frayed.

Yet bad hair was equivalent to a scratch compared to her back getting ravaged by friction and the terrain. Saying it felt like a scalping was an understatement. She continued to scream.

"Damn, witch doesn't know how to shut up," the driver said to his partner in the sidecar.

Her colleagues' bullets hit dirt, leaves, bark. Anything but the—

"NAILED IT!" Hirschberg cried, nearly slipping off the branch between his legs. The driver slumped onto the handles as the man in the sidecar reached for the bloody brakes.

The cycled curbed into an Oak as the man lurched in inertia and hit his forehead at the trunk with Maria's nape hitting the sidecar bumper. He rushed out to the writhing girl, whipped out his Luger and pointed it at the woman and grasping her neck with the other hand, letting her approaching teammates grasp a full view of his threat.

"Tell him "kill her and we shoot."" Aldo ordered Wicki to translate.

The soldier shouted profanities and was about to threaten to press the trigger.

The blood flowed from the laceration at his neck as his forehead smacked onto the dried leaves. Maria tucked her nail file back into her pocket.

Donny entered the lighted alcove with the hissing girl in his arms. The rest of the men followed. He laid her belly-down onto a table as Stiglitz and Aldo started slashing at her shirt, careful to miss her bra. Maria buried her face in her folded arms. In her boots her toes curled so tight that inside they turned pale. She tried not to kick.

"Gimme the scraps. There's hydrogen peroxide in my bag."

The liquid was poured on her wounds as she bit hard into the remnants of her clothes, eyes shut tight. It stung horribly and still hurt.

"Can you manage?" Aldo's tone, unfazed by his concern for one of his men, still maintained the thick Appalachian accent.

"Just give me my clothes and stuff."

"Awright, boys. Backup," Donny signaled for the men to clear the room.

When Maria came out, hair unruly, torso bandaged from her shallow chest to below where her ribcage ends, her jacket hanging by her shoulders, the Basterds gathered over some notes the Nazis had.

"Well, good mornin' sunshine," Aldo greeted. "Had a nice rest?"

"Would've been nicer if my backside hadn't been stinging like a motherfucking—" she hissed, grabbing her shoulder. "Anyway, thanks for asking. What's up?"

"New info," Utivich said.

"The fricken fuhrer's comin' to town," Hirschberg concluded.

"So…" she combed through her matted hair with her fingers. "What, ow, ugh, we do, ow, now?" The more she twisted and tugged, the more knotted it got. It looked disgusting a some bunches started to shed.

"Kid," Donny stared. "You look like something the cat dragged in."

"Care to oblige her, Donnowitz?" Aldo asked.

"I could give her a shot."

Maria didn't complain when Donny borrowed a blade. Not until she saw her reflection 25 minutes later…

"GAH! The fuck is that?" It was uneven at the shoulders, the ends had split even more and since she had naturally wavy or frizzy hair, it exploded into a poof.

The Basterds didn't know who to laugh at.

"Guess you didn't exactly inherit your dad's skill, eh Donnowitz?"

Donny grabbed Hirschberg's collar and was about to throw a punch except it landed in his lieutenant's palm instead. Their commanding officer went to their youngest soldier.

"Shit, Donnwitz. It looks like shit."

"Well that's real reassuring, boss," Maria scowled.

"Shoo', Av'. I never said it was impossible to fix this piece a crap," Aldo tilted her head in different angles. "Stiglitz. Come over here an' help me." Aldo unsheathed his knife. Maria stared.

"Ugh, boss? That's the knife you use to scalp, right?"

"Yup."

"…just checking."

She sat on the leaves, hugging her knees as the two sliced away at dead layers and clumps. Shreds of black-brunette hair lined near her bottom.

Eventually, the teenager stared at her reflection once more. It was close to the scalp and nape but not thin. Uneven but it looked alright.

"Now you look like a boy," Aldo sheathed his bowie. "You live with boys, you fight with boys, might as well look like a boy. Not questionin' your ladyship or nuthin'. Just sayin'."

She stared at the compact.

"Not bad. Anyway. The plan?"


End file.
